


All Your Wicked Ways

by InFamousHero



Series: Dark Fem!Revan x Bastila Feelings Never Die [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Romance, F/F, Femslash February, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Vignette, dark side, the spicy LGBT content Disney is too much of a coward to greenlight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InFamousHero/pseuds/InFamousHero
Summary: Taking advantage of the Dark Lord while she lay broken and dying seemed the lesser evil at the time. But the Jedi Council will learn the hard way that violating someone's mind and building a puppet personality for their own ends doesn't engender gratitude or mercy, it only guarantees the second rise of someone they hoped would never return when the secret finally comes out...[This is a string of vignettes encompassing the plot from beginning to end]
Relationships: Female Revan/Bastila Shan
Series: Dark Fem!Revan x Bastila Feelings Never Die [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997746
Comments: 6
Kudos: 138
Collections: Real Good Shit





	All Your Wicked Ways

**Author's Note:**

> I started another KOTOR playthrough recently and was hit with the Bastila feels.

The first time she sees Bastila in person strikes Soren speechless in ways both unexpected and not. It’s strange to think of anyone being able to subdue a Jedi, especially one as supposedly powerful as Bastila, but any thoughts of powers and battle fall to the wayside and whatever the race master was saying fades into muffled gibberish.

Vertigo hits her with all the care of a drunk Rodian and Soren leans an arm on the race master’s desk, momentarily forgetting where she is.

There’s a familiarity to Bastila she can’t place, pulling at something inside her like a magnet, and she’s struck with the sense that the course of her life is about to change in ways she can’t even begin to predict.

The sounds of the crowded swoop track rush back in. Soren blinks, straightens, and looks the race master in the eye.

“I’m ready.”

* * *

She didn’t expect the force, but it makes sense, too much sense, in fact, and she can’t figure out why.

The destruction of Taris should be all that’s on her mind, but it’s too large and horrifying to take in so she dwells on Bastila’s questions into her background instead. Information that was readily available in her military files and information Bastila ultimately didn’t care about.

_“I was gauging your response.”_

The implications confuse her, and there’s more time to think about it than she likes as they fly to Dantooine.

It’s that time to think that leads Soren to realise how easy the information is to recall on its own, devoid of attachments, sensory or otherwise. She tries to think about the details, faces of friends or loved ones, sensations, emotions—but there’s nothing. At a certain point in the past, the only thing she can recall is sterile information.

Soren Karst.

Republic Soldier.

Twenty-nine standard years of age.

Where she trained, a nameless core world space station.

Where she learned all these alien languages, the same station.

Where she gained the experience for her multitude of talents, the exact same station.

Washing her face in the Ebon Hawk’s refresher, she stares at herself in the mirror. She’s paler than usual, and there are shadows under her eyes, turning their usually bright green hue into something nauseous looking. She tries to shake off the questions prowling the edges of her mind like hungry tuk’ata, putting it down to the traumatic spectacle of a planet bombarded into rubble.

It’s easier that way.

* * *

Dantooine hits her with a sense of déjà vu powerful enough to keep her off-balance for the first few days. She can’t remember ever being here, not once, but it’s all familiar.

Bastila treats her differently, subtly but Soren sees it, and there’s a strange look in the eyes of older Jedi who first see her, a pause of recognition they hide almost as soon as it shows.

They know her. They act like they don’t in conversation, but they do.

The implications are too disturbing to dwell on, so she sinks into the Jedi training, desperate for something real to put her mind at ease.

* * *

The force-bond gives a name to the magnetism she feels in Bastila’s presence, and once she can focus on it, the training is exhilarating, as if parts of her she didn’t know are waking up. She takes to it like she was born to be a Jedi and attributes it to their special connection passing on some manner of advanced intuition.

Bastila seems perturbed by it at times, but as the lessons proceed her unease fades, and she takes on the comfortable role of study companion and sparring partner.

Soren enjoys testing strategies in the ring, teasing Bastila during their bouts to throw her off balance.

“Can’t you take this seriously?” Bastila asks her and not for the first time. Sweat makes her hair stick to her brow, her eyes bright in the afternoon sun—her cheeks are red with exertion and fluster.

“I am. Can’t you tell?” Soren smiles, keeping her tone light and disarming. She casually spins the training blade in her hand, as sore and sweaty as Bastila, but having fun all the same. “Not every fight will be with someone playing by the rules, and you’re very easy to mess with.”

An indignant look flashes across Bastila’s face. “What do you—you think _you’re_ testing _me_?”

Soren’s grin is an open challenge, and she quickly falls into a ready stance. “Oh, I don’t think, I _know._ ”

Bastila engages her with renewed energy, focused on wiping the grin off her face. Their training blades whirl and flash in the sunlight, clashing again and again, dancing around each other when they break apart. They lock blades, muscles straining to hold the other at bay. Soren has the advantage in height and reach, and she tries to bear down on Bastila, only for the Jedi to smile and _wink_ at her.

It takes only a second of bewilderment on Soren’s part for Bastila to sweep her legs out from under her.

The wind rushes out of her lungs as her back hits the packed earth. When she regains her breath, she sits up to find a training blade pointed at her face, which only makes her grin again. Bastila is breathing heavily with a grin of her own, and there’s a strange, warm pulse between them when she offers her hand with a fondly muttered, “you’re insufferable.”

Soren allows herself to be pulled up, only to stumble from a head rush and find herself far closer to Bastila than intended. They can feel each other’s breath and a secretive quiet falls around them, ephemeral in its seclusion and intimacy.

Before she can think of anything to say, Bastila slips free and turns away, hurrying off the training grounds.

* * *

Diplomacy was an exhausting skillset, and one Soren employed only when she felt it was deserved. She was far more at home in the flow of battle, of which Dantooine had no shortage thanks to the Mandalorian presence, a perplexing incursion the Jedi inexplicably refused to deal with in any decisive manner.

The sight of Mandalorians brutalising regular folk just trying to get by touches an unexpectedly deep well of anger within her, as if she harboured it for years, and its second-nature to close the distance and cut these shameful warriors down where they stand.

It feels right.

It feels familiar.

* * *

Nightmares hound her sleep on the way to Tatooine.

She dreams of red lightsabres amidst a storm of sand and smoke, embers flying wild in the fire-tinted air. Bombs fall around her, rupturing the ground and sending the mangled bodies of soldiers flying, shattered into pieces.

Soren finds herself at the sink again, washing her face and running cold, wet hands through her black hair. She reminds herself to breathe, shaking, and looks at the mirror.

Her eyes are the colour of molten metal.

She flinches from the reflection, stomach-lurching, vertigo taking her to the floor where she wraps her arms tight around her waist.

It’s all she can do to keep her stomach from emptying right then and there.

_It was her, it was her, it was her…_

* * *

To reflect _both_ light and dark is a source of great concern for Bastila and Soren supposes, it must make her harder to predict and pin down. She understands the concern, to a point; there are dangers to indulging in one’s dark impulses too much.

Enemies are brought down quickly, the more reprehensible the harsher their fall and her zeal in doing so borders on bloodthirst at times. She’s quick to glare and sneers at the corporate machinations of Czerka and their capitalistic lack of empathy towards anything but their bottom line to the point of open hostility.

But she didn’t need to give that woman more credits than the wraid plate was worth.

She didn’t need to go out of her way to treat the sand people with respect and come to a peaceful solution.

Bastila tells her she isn’t sure what to make of Soren yet. Too much is unclear about the path forward and when Soren asks her what _she_ personally thinks Bastila avoids answering and asks to spar in the cargo hold.

Soren lets her avoid it, for now.

* * *

A stowaway prompts their return to Dantooine and as soon as they touch down Bastila vanishes to the archives to read and think as if her presence doesn’t twist on itself to Soren’s senses.

“I can feel something is bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?”

The gentle seriousness takes Bastila off-guard, and her cheeks tinge pink before she gestures for Soren to sit across from her.

“I suppose I should. It does pertain towards you. The fact that you are so strong in the Force and have had such relatively little training could have terrible consequence. For you, and everyone around you.”

The admission falls heavy on her shoulders, and Soren frowns. “I understand where you’re coming from, but there isn’t time for more training. We can’t stay here and leave Malak unchallenged.”

Bastila sighs, crossing her arms on the table. “I know. If things were different, you would train for years to learn the necessary discipline and control to wield strength such as yours. The dark side is everything we are fighting against and resisting its influence is doubly important for you, with your natural affinity.” She offers a strained smile, trying to soften the concerned edge in her voice. “But you’ve exhibited a degree of compassion and self-control up to this point. I only hope you maintain these traits in the future.”

There’s a weight to those words that betrays deeper meaning; worries left unsaid for the wounds they might open. Soren swallows the questions she wants to ask for a quiet, “I’ll do my best.”

Bastila nods slowly. “I tell you this because this bond of ours goes both ways. Right now, it is only surface thoughts and vague feelings, but the longer we travel together the stronger it will become, and the greater our effect on each other will be. Do you understand?”

She does, and the implication drops a cold stone in her belly. She reaches across and places her hand on Bastila’s arm, a gesture that makes Bastila freeze. “I do, I won’t do anything to hurt you.”

There’s a tangle of conflict within Bastila at those words, sadness, confusion, and guilt. It’s the guilt that catches Soren’s attention the most, but Bastila speaks before she can ask. “I believe you, but sometimes it is not so easy to keep such promises.”

Bastila rises from her seat, emotions folding inward, afraid and withdrawing. “Excuse me. I need to clear my thoughts so I’ll be meditating until we leave.”

She walks away, and Soren can’t help but wonder what the guilt as about.

She wonders what Bastila’s secret is.

* * *

The flight to Kashykk brings more visions and nightmares.

The star map is one thing, the Mandalorians and their war beasts charging through a dark jungle is another, shrouded in smoke and embers, the scent of blood and death hanging in the air like fog.

Bastila reassures hers over midnight tea that its nothing, just her mind mangling their recent encounters and spitting them back out in a new form. It’s the stress of their mission—the fate of the galaxy isn’t an easy thing to bear.

Soren isn’t sure if she believes that. She thanks Bastila all the same and hugs her in the silent galley. There’s a moment of surprise and inaction, but Bastila relaxes into it and ducks her head against Soren’s shoulder, returns the hug like someone who longed for such an embrace for years.

They say nothing and break only when the tea is cold.

* * *

Her anger at Czerka gives Bastila pause.

On the one hand, she understands why and she wants to temper the fury she feels for Bastila’s sake more than her own, but on the other hand, Soren can’t help but defend her passion. It should be easy to let slide when the targets of her anger are corporate slavers, infesting the planet, subjugating its people and possessing the sheer, colonial arrogance to rename it in their own interest.

Jolee interjects about the backlash her actions might bring on the Wookiees, and she turns on him with a hard, grim timbre to her voice.

“If I can make it happen, there won’t _be_ any Czerka around to lift a finger about this by the time we leave.”

He grunts, studying her carefully, and she can’t tell what he’s thinking.

There’s something troubling about the way Bastila looks at her as they continue through the Shadowlands, as if afraid of something, and Soren tries to swallow the swell of guilt.

* * *

The questions trigger something deep in her mind, empowering that increasingly present sense of déjà vu that all but _screams_ at her that this is familiar, that she’s been here before despite having no memory of ever visiting Kaashykk. Yet, the computer recognises her, and she ponders each question, letting her thoughts wander freely. She reaches out with her senses for whatever echo Revan and Malak left behind, using it to nudge her in the right direction.

Answers come easier than expected, words of ruthless pragmatism and strategic death, things she should be opposed to if she felt inclined to answer like a conventional Jedi.

It’s only when their business in the Shadowlands is concluded that Soren realises that Bastila is afraid _for_ her and that that fear is growing.

* * *

It doesn’t surprise her when Bastila takes her aside to a secluded corner of the ship to talk.

“We freed them, Bastila,” she says quietly, breaking the tension in the air as she watches Bastila pace with restless, troubled energy.

“You know it isn’t that.” Bastila stops and looks at her. “We did a good thing here.”

“My emotions aren’t your responsibility, no matter what the council told you. I didn’t let my anger make me cruel, but I can’t deny what I feel when I see injustice like that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Then what?”

“I worry about you. I’ve seen you be kind and compassionate and merciful but there is an _edge_ to you that I cannot ignore.”

“That computer in the Shadowlands.”

Bastila’s expression sours and she resumes her pacing, arms crossing like a barrier both physical and mental. She consciously pulls back, resisting any sense Soren might have of her feelings at the moment and it puts Soren on edge.

She stands, digging for the right words. “I knew it wanted a specific kind of answer, or it would react aggressively.”

Bastila stops, and her voice comes out low and severe as if lost in thought. “How did you know?”

“I reached out for the Revan and Malak’s echo. It gave me a sense of the answers.”

“An unusually accurate sense it would seem.”

Before she can question those words, Bastila turns with a mask of calm neutrality. “I’m sorry. This must seem disproportionate. You have so much potential, and I’d hate to see it wasted because I missed something or made a mistake.”

It’s easier to let the ambiguous, difficult topic come to an end than continue it, so she smiles and closes enough distance to put a hand on Bastila’s shoulder. “You haven’t. You help me feel grounded and remind me to stay focused on our goal. I’m sure I would’ve lost my feet by now if you weren’t here.”

A pink flush washes over Bastila’s cheeks, and she averts her eyes. “That’s kind of you to say,” she murmurs and then she’s walking away, leaving a wake of loose and flustered feelings.

And guilt.

Always guilt in moments like these.

The words die in her throat, and Soren says nothing, watching Bastila until she stands alone in the cargo hold.

* * *

The journey to Manaan triggers a vision of the star map on the ocean floor and a nightmare about drowning, clawing in the dark, smothering depths for air that never comes, lost in a rising cloud of silt.

A red haze approaches her, bringing with it a sound like hot metal being quenched. Malak towers through the dark, murky waters, striding without effort and swinging his sabre in a sweep of sizzling water and hot air bubbles.

_“You are weak. You are blind. You will fail.”_

She wakes in her bunk covered in cold sweat, holding her head in her hands, and she can’t shake the feeling of being taunted, of being _touched._

Malak reached out to her. He knew what to search for, what her presence felt like—why?

Bastila comes to her before she can try to parse the nightmare’s meaning, offering tea to take her mind off it. There’s something disquieting about Bastila’s presence, a subtle, cold insistence to distract Soren from her thoughts and lead her away from thinking about it too much.

It begs a thousand questions, but sickness grips her stomach, and she is tired, so she accepts the tea and tries to put it out of her mind.

* * *

The steam vents hurt more than Soren expects, sprinting and lunging through them as quickly as possible, eager to reach the technical nerve centre of the Sith base and ease their passage. The Jedi robes do little in the ways of protection.

Bastila fusses, admonishes her, holding her reddened face to heal burns that are ultimately superficial.

Jolee smiles knowingly but says nothing.

Neither does Soren.

* * *

Sunry’s fate sits sour on her tongue, and Soren tries to parse her reaction while watching the waves. It _feels_ correct—killing one’s lover while they slept, a betrayal of vulnerability and intimate trust, well it turns her stomach. Sunry’s private failure as a husband makes the sentence a little more palatable.

Bastila joins her in watching the waves. Manaan’s ocean sparkles in the warm glow of sunset.

“It doesn’t feel like justice.”

“Maybe not. But she trusted him enough to let her guard down and he took advantage of that. It was murder.”

Bastila is quiet for a moment, folding her hands behind her back. “And what of us? Does our body count mean nothing?”

That brings a frown to her face, and Soren looks at her. “There’s a line between killing and murdering. Neither of us are murderers, Bastila. We haven’t cut down innocents in cold blood.”

There’s a sudden stiffness to Bastila’s posture as she makes eye contact, guarded, closed off, calculating, and it sends a pulse of confused dread through Soren’s stomach. “What?”

Bastila looks back at the ocean. “Nothing, you have a point.”

She wants to ask, the words are on the tip of her tongue, begging to slip free, but part of her is afraid to find out what Bastila is hiding, so she doesn’t. She keeps her fears to herself.

* * *

“Query: Given that there is only one suit, Master, what would you have us do while you venture into the predator infested depths without us?”

Faint nervous energy flutters around Bastila like moths, sending furtive glances at a viewing window where sweeping floodlights illuminate the firaxan sharks on the other side.

“Ignore him,” Soren smiles, reassuringly, “I’ll be fine.”

“I know that.” Bastila’s answer is too short and too quick.

Soren puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezes, causing a flush of pink to spread across Bastila’s face. “I’ll be back before you know it. You can’t get rid of me with a few oversized fish,” she finishes with a wink and closes the visor of her environment suit.

The pink turns to red and Bastila flusters, shooing Soren away from her. “Oh, get out there already, I’m sure the firaxan will _love_ you!”

Tension broken, Soren grins and moves to the airlock.

* * *

The crack of Darth Bandon’s knuckles whipping across Bastila’s face burns her ears.

With a savage snarl, Soren breaks the defence of her opponent and cuts the dark Jedi in half at the waist. Only the Darth remained, a cold, sizzling brand to her senses—the darkness is familiar. _More_ than familiar, it’s almost welcoming, and she doesn’t give herself a moment to contemplate why.

She spins around to see him bearing down on Bastila, his face twisted in a broad, sneering grin, and she instinctively reaches out for his neck. He’s distracted with Bastila, his back is turned, and he thinks his lackeys can do his job for him.

Soren wraps her will around his throat like a noose and squeezes. He jolts, choking, and loses momentum. Bastila rises like a spear and impales him through the heart, staring him in the eyes as she lets him slowly, painfully slide from her blade as it cuts through his body.

He’s dead before his body thumps to the ground.

Their eyes meet, sharing in the triumph, only for Bastila to look at the body and the ugly, gaping fissure of burned flesh she cut through him instead of a simple, practical puncture.

Shame is a sour flood, and Bastila refuses to meet her eyes again until they return to the surface.

* * *

Another nightmare of Mandalorians, fire, and lightsabres disturbs Soren’s sleep, forcing her to shuffle out into the galley in search of water only to find Bastila already sitting there awake, quietly nursing a cup of tea.

Bastila looks up at her and just as quickly looks away.

“We need to talk,” Soren murmurs, forgetting her water.

“What is there to talk about? How I can’t control myself or how I’m failing you?”

The words are cutting, self-flagellation that lodges an ache in Soren’s chest. She sits next to Bastila at the table, facing her, earnest as she tries to catch Bastila’s eye. “You can, and you aren’t. You’re a good person, Bastila, it isn’t all or nothing.”

When Bastila doesn’t react, Soren gently puts a hand on her shoulder, only for Bastila to shy away. “No, no, we can’t do this. It isn’t right.” She leaves the table to pace, holding her tea close to her chest.

The ache worsens.

Soren slowly stands and tries not to fumble her words. “You feel it too.”

“Of course I do. That doesn’t mean either of us should act on it. I’m a Jedi, _we_ are Jedi, and _we_ are supposed to be above this, this…”

“Yes?”

“Foolishness. This is nothing but juvenile infatuation.”

Try as she might to dismiss the situation Soren can feel the conflict within Bastila, the _want_ , and the anger at that want, the frustration of being unable to control one's emotions and move beyond it.

Soren steps closer, heart rising into her throat. “You’re always too hard on yourself. It isn’t so terrible to care.”

Bastila turns on her heel, brows pulled in, and a slight grimace pressing her lips together. “This isn’t _just_ caring, and you know it. I can’t…” she pauses, softly shakes her head. “I want to stop thinking about you,” she whispers, “you’re always there. Your smile, your eyes, your touch, the way you laugh—it’s affecting me. I can’t escape your presence.”

Another step, a gentler, lower tone of voice. “Do you want to?”

Bastila shakes her head again, half turning, averting her eyes. “No. But I should. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t _want_ to stay because of you. After what I did to Bandon I should return to the Dantooine, if not for my own good then for yours. If I can’t be strong enough to resist those impulses, I’m afraid of awakening…I don’t want to make things worse.”

Secrets and implications skulk at the edges of her thoughts, urging her to think, to _focus_ and pick them apart. Soren does neither, closing the distance between them and murmuring, “please, look at me.”

After a pause, Bastila slowly exhales and meets her stare. “This isn’t right,” she mutters, all the while the longing to move closer, to touch, _want_ , desire, it all but screams at Soren now. Give in, just once. _Once._

She lifts her hand to Bastila’s cheek and stops short, an offering, one Bastila leans into it, eyes falling shut. Soren bends, leaning their brows together as she asks, “is that how you really feel?”

“You know it isn’t.”

“It won’t end the galaxy, Bastila, you—”

Warm, soft lips press against her and Soren can’t think. She slips an arm around Bastila’s waist, and the tea clatters to the floor, spilling on their feet. Clumsy, nervous hands grasp at her broad shoulders and Soren catches Bastila against the galley counter, pressing the length of their bodies together.

There’s a fire in her belly, urging her to lead the kiss with an unfamiliar experience that slithers from some untouched corner of her thoughts.

She feels the bond between them flare up like a star, bathing her in all its warmth on a balmy summer day.

The threat of a loud, bestial yawn jolts Bastila back to the present of rules and expectations. She pushes hard and Soren stumbles, surprised, off-balance, her foot catches the fallen teacup and with a yelp, her legs fly out from under her. Her back hits the floor and the air rushes out of her lungs, momentarily stunning her with all the comfort of a bucket of ice water dumped over her head.

That bright, brilliant warmth is gone. The abrupt silence from Bastila’s side of the bond steals her breath more than the hard impact, opening an aching emptiness inside her. She only sits up in time to see Bastila hurriedly exiting the galley, passing by a bewildered Zalbaar.

* * *

Carth’s agonised screams were easy enough to tune out. Her mind was too busy trying to understand Saul’s sneering excitement over her supposed ignorance. He _knew_ something about her, something to do with Malak—she had a history with Malak.

It dawns on her that the suspicions and doubts she’s spent this entire journey ignoring are coming to ahead and that alone sends her thoughts skittering like water droplets in a hot pan.

Saul takes her silence as defiance, but she’s staring into the middle distance, trying to squash the answers she doesn’t want to contemplate, the _possibilities,_ each of them screaming at her to _look_ , to _confront_ , to accept.

She can’t.

The pain returns to all of them, a ten-fold surge of agony that buckles her spine and empties her stomach until her mind shuts down in self-preservation.

* * *

Bastila is afraid. Her fear is like a gizka caught in a snare, kicking and jumping, and she’s holding it as tight as she can, but Soren can feel it.

All because of what Saul whispered to Carth with his dying breath.

The anger in Carth’s eyes when he looked at Soren makes the fear take hold in her as well, striking her with a sense of helplessness, as if she’s caught in a gravity well, unable to escape an inexorable pull towards something terrible.

She tries to steel herself for it, putting on a mask of outward determination and bravery.

It doesn’t matter. Bastila knows the truth.

* * *

It hurts.

It _hurts_ like a sun burning in the centre of her chest, and she channels that pain into sheer, unadulterated fury against Malak.

Their blades sizzle and crack, leaving glowing slashes and scorch marks in their wake, a whirling dance of red against violet echoing down the cold passages of the Leviathan.

Before she can land a grievous blow, he feints and catches her off guard with a hard push, throwing her twenty meters down the hallway. It gives him enough time to flee, to _run_ from her, sealing the way behind him.

Soren closes the distance in two force-assisted jumps and grabs the door by its mechanical parts to tear it open through brute strength of will alone. Slowly but surely it submits, crunching and buckling, showering the hallway with sparks and echoing a hideous cacophony of tearing metal.

Malak’s surprised stare meets her on the other side. Too late he realises he underestimated her—he made a mistake.

She lunges through the broken blast door, engaging him again with a fervour he hasn’t faced before. If she was more focused, he would be dead already, but those accursed words rush back into her thoughts, crashing over her with the weight of an ocean. She can feel herself unravelling, her mind frantically going through every memory of her time since waking up on the Endar Spire to now, ruthlessly searching every encounter, every conversation, every passing moment to pinpoint the _lies_ and the truths that should have been obvious to her from the start.

And they were.

She _knew_ something was wrong, and she ignored it, was too afraid to confront it. She was a _coward_.

Distantly she hears Carth arguing with Bastila through the broken blast door, and the pain inside her turns visceral and bone-deep, cutting her with words said in anger and betrayal, and the _hurt_ in Bastila’s eyes.

A hurt she put there.

Before Soren can stop herself, she is screaming. Her blows become frenzied and reckless and she _howls_ , buckling the wall and floor panels around her.

Malak swings for her head but the force wraps around her, yanking her away. She rights herself in the air and flips, landing with a snarl next to her supposed allies. Bastila’s fear flutters and kicks, and the guilt, the ever-present _guilt_ that should have told her everything cuts into her.

Tears sting her eyes.

“Find the Star Forge! I’ll hold him off, go!”

Bastila doesn’t wait. She charges Malak and closes the next blast door behind her.

The energy fizzles out inside her and Soren can’t bring herself to act or speak. All she can do is let Carth drag her back to the Ebon Hawk.

* * *

When the visions of Korriban disturb her sleep, there is no one to share it with. She feels broken, and lost, and hollow, and sits alone in the galley, staring at an empty teacup.

The crew accepted what she used to be. They didn’t see a monster standing in front of them then and there—they should have.

The Jedi used her, violated her mind, her autonomy, made her a tool for their own ends—and she was supposed to be grateful? Thank them for that wholly conditional mercy?

Bastila’s words rattle through her thoughts, now cast in a malicious light: _What greater weapon is there than to turn an enemy to your cause? To use their own knowledge against them?_

A weapon.

They should have killed her body as well.

She snarls, sweeping the empty cup off the table, and stalks away.

* * *

Canderous and HK-47 follow her off the ship into Dreshdae, flanking her like bodyguards as she strides through the settlement with a palpable presence that causes heads to turn and conversation to pause as she walks by.

It curdles the air around her, a cold, seething fury just below the surface.

Proud and impetuous academy hopefuls lose their bluster the longer she stares them down as they realise picking a fight isn’t in their best interest. Not with her, not with someone who feels like a shackled nexu ready to lash out given a chance.

She is going to tear Malak apart, limb by limb, no matter what she needs to do to get there.

* * *

The pain is foreign and distant, but she can feel it, it’s distinct, like a needle under the skin.

Malak is not a kind host, and that awakens something genuinely _vicious_ inside her.

Despite everything, despite all her rage and hurt, she can’t avoid how she really feels about Bastila, and that stings the most.

* * *

Meditating in the darkened halls of the Sith academy brings fragmented memories rushing back like a broken dam. Snapshots of her time as a Jedi, her _first_ time as a Jedi, the horror of watching the Mandalorians butcher countless innocents and her fury at the council’s inaction while so many suffered.

The righteousness of _action_ , the pride of victory and lives saved—the darkness that came after.

There is a black spot in her memory different from the rest, a void where the time between her disappearance and her return to know space as Dark Lord of the Sith should have been. She can’t tell if it’s a product of Jedi manipulation or something else.

The uncertainty leaves a sour, humiliated feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 _Used_.

She grits her teeth and rises, sparks skittering across her knuckles. The academy expects cunning and ruthlessness—she would give them what they wanted and more.

* * *

She walks away from the dark and hallowed halls amid a shroud of smoke and the smell of burning flesh, her violet sabre menacingly humming as it slices through the air and cuts down the last of the guards.

Gutting this place was easier than expected, excising weak and short-sighted fools from an old, imperfect perspective — an old, imperfect life—what prescience she must have lacked.

For all the faults, however, she can’t help but test the name on her tongue.

Revan.

It sits well with her again.

Malak will learn to fear it.

* * *

She was short with the crew, giving away little in her answers as they formulated a plan of action on this strange, unknown world.

HK-47 and Canderous once more help pave the way with blood and death, and the Rakatan remnants thank her for returning their lost secrets.

The pain has stopped and she knows Bastila is still alive. There is no answer when she tries to reach out at first but something inside her is excited. She moves through the ancient temple with single-minded focus, heart thundering in her ears and earnest Jedi at her back.

Jolee and Juhani think she needs them, but all she needs is to reach that cloying, tenebrous presence at the end of her senses. The other side of their force bond opens up the closer she gets and Bastila feels like blood on snow, cold and visceral.

Revan smiles to herself.

* * *

The fate of binary stars is inevitable once their dance begins, inexorably pulling inward, the power of celestial bodies swirling closer and closer together disturbing the very fabric of space itself until that final calamitous merge into a single, brilliant force of nature.

That is how it feels when their eyes meet atop the temple, the sun beating down, the waves crashing far below—the bond crackles between them like a live wire, and Revan’s feet are moving before her thoughts have time to coalesce.

Sabres ignite in challenge and Revan cannot help but grin, meeting Bastila’s red blade with the strength of a hurricane. She feels like a rancor cut loose from its cage and despite the danger of three opponents bearing down on her, Bastila smiles in turn. It’s the smile of a predator smelling blood. She feels the secrets Revan holds, proffered through their bond like a note in class, an offering.

A desire.

An understanding.

They finally fall into each other.

Without word or warning, they whirl back to back, turning on Juhani and Jolee as one. The flow of battle shifts so abruptly it knocks the Jedi off-balance, equal parts surprised and horrified. They fall dead in moments, betrayed by their supposed saviour—the council puppet.

Bastila stares at her, eyes bright and burning gold. A smirk curls her lips and Revan grabs the front of her robes, pulling her into a hard, hungry kiss that Bastila melts into. Teeth catch her lower lip, and Bastila grins against her, pulling away.

“I knew you would come for me, like this,” she whispers, her rage abating for the moment, “Malak believes me his supplicant. It’s time he paid for his treachery.”

* * *

Carth isn’t worth pursuing, his refusal to fall in line is expected—his abandonment of Mission is not. He didn’t even try to help her get away.

Coward.

The girl is earnest, all but crying as it dawns on her just how dark a turn her situation has taken. All her wookiee friend can do is weakly affirm his life debt.

“You’ll just have to kill me. But I don’t think you will.”

“I don’t need to,” Revan smiles gently, and waves her hand. “Sleep.” The command overwhelms Mission easily, and she slumps to the ground unconscious. When Zalbaar loudly objects, Revan puts him to sleep as well. Mission needs him, but Revan doesn’t need either of them where she is going.

* * *

There is a delicious irony to using the technology Malak stole from her to reforge her armour, not only for herself but for one he sought to bend to his will.

For the second time in her life, Revan sheds the vestments of the Jedi and all that they mean. The plain dark robes Bastila was given are unworthy of her, and in a moment of quiet intimacy, they secure each other’s new armour with a telling amount of care and thoroughness.

After today, there will be no one else to stand against or between them ever again.

* * *

She can almost taste his fear.

Malak can bluster and boast as much as he wants to soothe his cowering ego, but he knows nothing can stop her, he simply isn’t willing to accept it yet. So he throws his soldiers, his supplicants, his droids at her, manufactures paltry, cowardly traps to slow her down and delay the inevitable.

Revan calmly prowls after him in a swirling melange of smoke and lightning.

* * *

The clatter of a broken lightsabre satisfies more than Revan can articulate in the moment, watching Malak fall to his knees and choke on wet, ragged breath. His body trembles and he stares at the withered, drained corpses of his Jedi captives used against him, at the destruction of the Republic fleet outside the towering dome of his throne room, and finally, he looks up at her.

He is so small all of a sudden.

Revan smiles coolly as she kneels, touching his metal jaw where blood weeps from the seams between technology and flesh. She presses her lightsabre against his stomach and ignites it, watching his eyes widen and water before she cleaves through his body and bisects him from waist to crown.

His steaming corpse flops messily to the floor, blood and other fluids pooling beneath him.

For the first time in a long, long time, Revan breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

Everything falls into place with an ease that seems almost too good to be true. She knows full well that nothing lasts forever. There _will_ come a time when her life is at an end, and no one will be there to save her, be it a quiet death in old age or the far more likely death in battle. For now, Revan enjoys the fear and respect afforded by her control of the Star Forge.

The subject of betrayal gnaws at her thoughts, pushing her to outline plan for a new Sith academy and new teachings for a stronger foundation. Constant scheming and reckless ambition would eventually destroy the Sith from within if they shrugged off the very notion of loyalty or comradery. They had to be smarter than that, encouraged to close ranks and stand together as one when faced with Jedi machinations.

The Jedi would always seek to destroy what they cannot control, to shackle what they do not approve.

But such things were for the future, and she had more pressing matters to attend right now.

Striding onto the dark, private observation deck of her capital ship she finds Bastila standing before the endless expanse of deep space, haloed by starlight. Revan easily slips behind her, sliding firm hands around her waist. An appreciative hum escapes Bastila, and she tilts her head back where it fits neatly under Revan’s chin.

Reciprocal warmth passes between them, smoothing the jagged edges of each other’s darker emotions.

“I owe you an apology,” Revan murmurs.

“We must always plan for the future. I don’t hold it against you.”

Revan gives her a gentle squeeze. “I appreciate that, but I owe you an apology for that I said on the Leviathan. Both of us were being used by the council, and I was too shocked by the weight of it all to seize the situation properly.”

Bastila turns to reach up and cradle her jaw. “I could have handled it better,” she murmurs, pulling Revan down for a sweet kiss. “But it’s done and over with, behind us. We’re here, together, and free to do as we will, I find that enough for now.”

She draws them into a deeper kiss, bathed in starlight, the bond between them stronger than ever before.


End file.
